


General Winter

by holyhael



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Hallucinations, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Language Barrier, M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyhael/pseuds/holyhael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The winter picks them up and eats them by the dozen in quick succession, weeds them out. Dean Winchester doesn't stand a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	General Winter

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by an episode of Weather That Changed the World and set in the French Invasion of Russia
> 
> if any of the translations are shit, tell me and blame the google translator app. to see translations, click the end notes or copy and paste the words you don't understand into your favorite translator.
> 
> this is a work of fiction, and though i tried to keep everything as accurate as i could, there's bound to be some inaccuracies, namely medical and historical ones. do not rub someone with frostbite. this may damage their tissue even more.

**Winter 1812**  
**Russia**

Shaking and nearly unable to perform even this simple task, Dean pushes the fabric aside and presses his numb fingers to the point where Victor’s pulse should be but isn’t. Not that Dean expected to find a sign of life. Dean warned Victor not to close his eyes, not to succumb to sleep as many of their comrades have. Of course the stupid bastard didn't listen. Now, Dean is alone. The conditions are so unfathomably below freezing that none of the Grande Armée have any clue as to how the Russians can stand it for any length of time. And here the Grande Armée is supposed to be invincible. It seems cruel that something as unpredictable as the weather can stop such a brute force of men.

Well, there’s nothing more Dean can do for Victor. And Victor would want to give Dean every chance of survival so he can get back home to his little brother. Dean's trembling fingers hook into the frozen fabric of the dress wrapped around Victor's neck like a scarf. Dean is wearing a similar number. When the Grande Armée stole the goods from Moscow after Alexander I refused to surrender to Napoleon, they had no idea they’d be so valuable even before they made it back to France. Yeah, the soldiers make a funny sight in the gowns and gold, but in this unforgiving climate none of them can afford to care.

He strips Victor’s body. It is black and blue with frostbite and pale with exhaustion. Already it seems as though rigor mortis has set in; his body is so difficult to move. Dean has to break the fingers that have formed a fist. The blood that trickles out slows to a frozen stop. Dean feels guilty for wishing Victor had gone hysteric like many other victims of hypothermia and stripped himself of his clothes. That would have made this so much easier.

The additional layers don’t offer as much protection against the icy winds as Dean would have hoped, but it’s better than what he had before.

It’s been days since Dean’s had anything to eat. The Grande Armée’s rations froze within moments of winter’s arrival, inedible. Like the other soldiers, Dean’s eaten his share of horse meat when the animals keel over, and he’s even licked gunpowder out of his palms for the much needed salt. Dean has the abrupt, sickening, and overwhelming hallucination of cutting into Victor and eating him like the Grande Armée had the horses, like some of them have even done other men, but he restrains himself. No matter how starved, Dean would never bring himself to eat another human bein, least of all his best friend. He thinks of the reluctant ally he found in Gordon, who was one of the first to give in to cannibalism, who wouldn’t have bypassed this opportunity to sate his stomach, who was lost to them many miles back. Though Gordon was a little twisted, he and Victor will meet in Heaven if such a place exists. Dean envies them, but he must soldier on. He has a brother who desperately needs him. He must survive this cruel Russian winter.

He struggles back onto his weak knees.

The landscape never seems to change, all trees, snow, and hidden boulders. Or bodies. Dean squints through the flecks of snow flying into his eyes. He thinks he sees the Grande Armée stumbling ahead; Dean and Victor were already behind them, and Dean took more time than he realized to bundle himself in Victor’s clothes. If he has any chance of survival, it will be with the rest of the men and not behind them, alone with a dead body. There are stragglers here and there that are closer, but Dean can tell they’re about to drop.

Hope lies in the village reported to be around here. An oasis in this brutal climate. Of course, there's almost no way to tell where they are at this point, if they’re even walking in the correct direction or if they’re stumbling straight into Siberia. Their compasses and maps shake so violently in their hands that their readings are inaccurate, or the devices fall and nobody is willing to reach down into the snow and retrieve it.

Dean takes one step though the snow. His boots are soaked through and his toes are numb. He hasn’t the heart or will to see if they’ve become blue or fallen off entirely. Maybe if he gets himself in front of a fireplace he can take stock in how many extremities he has, or doesn’t have as the case may be.

The snow beats him down on his second step. His palms break through the snow, and even through his gloves and the socks he divested from Victor, the coldness pervades, soaks, numbs. He uprights himself just in time to see one of the stronger, more charismatic men bounding through the snow. The man shouts like a crow, “The town’s just ahead! The town’s just ahead!”

The news bolsters Dean’s and many other men’s fading energy. With this renewed hope, Dean picks up his pace. If only Victor could have held on for just a few minutes longer, but it’s too late now.

It takes an untold amount of time for the silhouette of the village to come into view, obscure and only a few shades darker than the bleak background, but there nonetheless. Dean stumbles through the snow with only Sammy and the prospect of thawing off in front of a toasty fireplace on his mind.

The first cabins come upon him abruptly. Light shines from each window, suggesting warmth, life. A plume of smoke escapes from the chimney. Either Dean’s hallucinating or the family at the closest home is baking bread; whichever it happens to be, Dean’s stomach pangs again to remind him of its emptiness. He isn’t strong enough to climb the small set of stairs leading up to the door without the help of the guardrail, so he grips it like a lifeline, leans heavily onto it, and prepares to climb up the few mountainous steps. However, before he can muster the strength to life his leg, something catches Dean’s eye. A bundle of shivering cloth is sitting where a doormat should be. Actually, there are several. The longer Dean stares, frozen, the more he can make out: the frostbitten tips of fingers clutching the edges of blankets, the unmistakeable blue of Napoleon’s Grande Armée’s uniform.

One of the people in the mass must have heard or sensed Dean’s arrival, as a head is turned his way. Even without the ice, snow, and frostbite on this man’s face, Dean wouldn't be able to recognize him.

Dean opens and closes his dry mouth until words stutter out. “Wh-what’s g-going o-o-on?” he asks.

“Th-they’ve clo-cl-closed the town,” the other soldier answers. “They a-a-are-aren’t allow-allowing us i-in.”

The cluster of men presses even more closely together.

The weather can’t be entirely blamed for the new rush of ice in Dean’s veins. No. No, no, no. They can’t let them freeze out here! It’s cruel and inhumane. Dean gapes at the man, on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Th-they are-aren’t-t?” Dean asks incredulously. His mind flashes, so many thoughts running through all at once, and he’s too tired to focus on a single one, though he can tell Sam is in every thought. Have to get home to him. Can’t die out here. Need to get warm. Sammy is warm.

“N-no, s-s-sir.”

“Why n-no-no-not?” Dean asks. “Wh-why aren’t th-they le-le-le-let-letting us-us in? Why n-not-”

“Th-they d-don’t t-t-take kin-kindly t-to the Fre-Fre-French, as y-you c-can im-im-im-ag-g-gine.” The soldier forces a small, shivering smile. “Th-th-they c-c-can-an’t-t rea-s-sonab-b-b-bly a-a-ac-c-om-mo-d-d-date-te th-th-thous-thousand-ds of their hy-hypo-thermic s-sold-diers, either.” He shrugs beneath his heaps of blankets, or perhaps that’s just a particularly violent shudder.

Dean’s eyes widen. Thousands? It seems impossible that so much of the Grande Armée has survived when they drop like flies.

“Y-you’re m-m-m-more th-than w-we-wel-welcome to join us, s-sir,” says the soldier.

“N-n-no-no,” Dean stutters. “There-there h-has t-t-t-to b-b-be s-some-someone. Some hu-hum-humanit-t-ty h-h-h-here.”

The man looks at him sadly. “V-v-very w-well.”

Dean would cry if he were able, certainly. He forces his hand to release the guardrail; his knuckles curl back in again. His knee joints are frozen, and it takes considerable effort to move them to talk. Dean feels the soldier’s pitying stare burn through him; unfortunately, it is not the kind of burn that has the ability to put heat beneath his skin.

He puts his brother’s name on his tongue and limps away from the building. The name repeatedly disappears into puffs of clouds.

There are several other houses at which Frenchmen shiver, starve, die on the doormat. At what Dean guesses to be is the grocery store, a pissed off looking man glares at Dean as he hobbles past. Dean doesn’t even bother asking for shelter there and moves on. He drags his feet over one body, another.

The further into town Dean goes, the less soldiers he sees. The winter picks them up and eats them by the dozen in quick succession, weeds them out. Dean Winchester doesn't stand a chance. Panic sets within him. He breathes in heavy breaths laden with snowflakes. His sluggish heartbeat stresses to accommodate the sudden rush of blood moving through it. He can’t feel his fingers, and his entire arm is about to go as well. The tears won’t fall here, but if they could, Dean would fill the English Channel. Dry sobs shake his chest.

Dean is just about to give up for good, buckle down where he stands, when he spies it. A house further from the rest where no soldiers hunker outside the door. It’s crazy, Dean knows in the back of his mind, it’s so crazy. He wants to burst into hysterics. Sam is hand in hand with Charlie, smiling and unaffected by the snow or wind. He wants Dean to join him inside. Dean fumbles to pick his gloves off so he can work the buttons of his robe, he knocks his hat off and throws it miles behind him. He’s inside, he’s warm.

Sam is still standing with Charlie. The distance between them and Dean doesn’t lessen even when Dean trudges forward. He blinks and everything is gone.

He collapses meters in front of the house.

It mocks him.

Dean knows this is it. He’s as good as dead, probably has been for days now. He should have ran away when he had the chance. He thinks of his brother. Warm and safe with Charlie. Will Sam ever learn of Dean’s fate? How long will it take the news to spread? Napoleon has long abandoned the Grande Armée. Making sure he keeps his throne. Making sure news of this disaster doesn’t get out of hand. Maybe Sam will never know.

Dean is still trying to figure out if it’s better this way when his eyelids shut. Darkness closes in. He breathes out.

There is nothing.

+

Samandriel frowns down at the stew over the fire. It’s been hanging from the spit for the better part of an hour, so at the very least it should be simmering, if not boiling. He reaches a hand out to the flames and finds they aren’t generating as much heat as necessary, nor have they produced any coals. His frown deepens.

“Bela’s wood doesn’t burn as well,” he says to Castiel, who is sipping the last of his tea over a book. At Samandriel’s comment, he looks up and frowns.

“Is it too green?”

“She said it’s been up to dry for several seasons,” Samandriel says, “but it seems as though it did its drying in the ocean.” Castiel smiles. “She must have given us elm.”

“I believe we still have some of last winter’s haul out back,” Castiel says, standing up. His back cracks as he stretches. “I’ll ask Bela for our money back when the blizzard relents.”

“That shouldn’t be for some time.” Samandriel places the lid back onto the pot before joining Castiel at the door. He kisses his partner’s lips and tastes the tea they drank in moments before. “Be careful out there.”

“I’m only going to the side of the house,” Castiel reminds him.

“Still.” He kisses Castiel again, this time a little bit longer and with a little bit more tongue. “Don’t take too long.” He retrieves Castiel’s gloves and second coat from their hooks and helps Castiel into them.

“I won’t,” promises Castiel. He gives Samandriel a smile before he opens the door, letting in a flurry of snow before he closes it behind him. In the dark coat, it’s difficult to distinguish Castiel from the night as he passes the windows, so Samandriel gives up and returns to the fire. He hasn’t been sitting for long when Castiel bursts back through the door, hood flown back from running and cheeks red. His eyes are wide. “Samandriel! There’s someone in the snow!”

Immediately, Samandriel abandons the fire and dons his own coat to follow Castiel outside. As soon as Samandriel steps out of the house, he sees through a fine blanket of snow a dark lump. Castiel and Samandriel wordlessly rush to the person’s aid. Samandriel hopes they haven’t found him too late; he knows how cruel the winters are and how quickly one can pass in them. Castiel hauls the man from the snow. His head lolls as if lifeless, but, after too many heart-pounding seconds, a cloud of breath passes his blue lips.

“We need to get him inside,” Castiel says, already beginning to heft the man into his arms. Castiel’s kind heart won’t allow this man to remain in the snow, even when he is a stranger (which in this part of the country is rare) and his chances of survival are low.

Castiel has a good heart. It’s one of the many reasons Samandriel has fallen in love with him. He hoists the unconscious man’s legs out of the snow and hooks his arms beneath his knees. Together, Samandriel and Castiel walk him into the house, where the man is gently deposited onto the small couch. The couch is then dragged closer to the fireplace. The man remains unconscious through the move and the ugly scraping noise of the couch’s legs against the floor.

In the face of the weak fire, already some of the snowflakes decorating the man are beginning to melt back into his partially removed clothes, his hair. Despite the blue frostbite spread across his face and the hollowness in his cheeks, Samandriel can tell he’s quite attractive. He has a face that appears elongated by the gingery beard growing on his strong jaw. His nose is straight; just below it are a pair of beautiful, though trembling and blue, lips.

“We need to get him warm,” Castiel says. “I’ll collect more water from the well. In the mean time, there’s still some left over from when I made tea.” He hands Samandriel their half-full water bucket, and Samandriel puts it in place of the stew. Supper can wait; getting this man warm cannot. "You undress him.”

Samandriel nods, though there’s a seed of worry in his mind that the water won’t heat fast enough over the anemic fire to help this man, and Castiel leaves again with their water pail. Samandriel begins his task by taking off the clothes on the man’s upper body; it looks like the man was becoming hysterical with hypothermia before they reached him; victims of extreme hypothermia have been known to become disoriented and discard their clothes. As each article of clothing is shed, Samandriel throws them to the side. This man must have been truly desperate for warmth judging by the variety of the clothing he has and the innovative ways in which he’s wearing them: women’s gowns around his neck, children’s clothes stuffed into his boots. Samandriel thinks he’s getting close to having the man completely naked when he lifts a woman’s spring dress over the man’s head, but what he finds beneath it shocks Samandriel still.

It’s a dark blue military tailcoat with short tails, red caps on the shoulders, and a crowned N insignia on the turn backs. This man is one of Napoleon’s men, one of the formerly six hundred thousand strong Grande Armée.

The creak of the door signals Castiel’s arrival. Samandriel looks up at him, eyes wide.

“Castiel,” Samandriel says. “He’s one of Napoleon’s men.”

The man’s finger gives a twitch.

Castiel looks over at them, unconcerned. He does not see an enemy sitting unconsciously on his couch; he only sees a man in need of their assistance. “So?”

“The Grande Armée burned Moscow to the ground,” Samandriel reminds his partner. “If anyone finds out we’ve helped the enemy, no one would have any problem putting bullets in our heads.”

Still, Castiel remains unperturbed and says, “If anyone finds out the nature of our relationship we’d see the same fate.”

This is true, sadly. Samandriel hangs his head for a moment, looking at the Frenchman’s ugly, frostbitten toes. The boots he was wearing were poorly designed for winter; in fact, all of his clothes - barring the cloak he obviously stole from Moscow - are ill-suited for the winter. Samandriel sees it as a kind of miracle that he survived the long trek all the way from the capital to their small village at the edge of the country, hundreds of miles apart.

“We still need the firewood from last year to get the fire hot enough to melt the ice in time,” Samandriel says. He can practically feel Castiel’s relief rolling off of him. “You still haven’t gotten that.”

“Given the circumstance, I think I can be forgiven,” Castiel replies with a hint of humor.

“Go quickly,” Samandriel urges, and Castiel leaves again. Samandriel returns to disrobing the Frenchman until the only barrier between him and the world is his skin. It’s beautiful skin, really, despite the puffy blue from hypothermia and frostbite. There are freckles scattered all across him, especially on his shoulders; Samandriel wonders if, once the frostbite clears, there'll be freckles on the man's face as well. Moving on from that train of thought, Samandriel takes stock in the rest of the man's body. His ribs are gut-wrenchingly prominent. Thankfully, there are no lacerations that need to be tended to. As Samandriel looks up and down the Frenchman's body, he tries not to let his gaze drop too often or for too long on the his member, but it does, though whether from fascinated horror or just fascination, Samandriel isn’t certain. Surely a mix of both, because while the Frenchman’s penis is frostbitten, it is also beautiful and thick.

Samandriel contemplates the benefits of warming up the man’s member with his mouth. He’s done the same with Castiel, though usually he’s started from the lips with no intention of going to his knees until suddenly he’s kissing his way down the other’s naked chest.

Would it be cheating if it could save the man’s life?

As soon as the word cheating comes across Samandriel’s mind, he’s appalled at himself. He can’t believe he even entertained the idea of sucking this stranger’s - this enemy’s! - penis when he has Castiel.

Suddenly the fire is too warm. Samandriel pushes himself off of his knees and goes to collect blankets from the empty bed he and Castiel have to keep up their ruse. He wraps the Frenchman in them, then stands at his shoulder while he waits for Castiel to return with the water. Samandriel doesn’t even know how he’s going to face his partner when he’s had these infidelic thoughts in his consciousness.

When the door opens again, Castiel has the wheelbarrow full of last year’s wood wheeled inside. Samandriel wastes no time throwing the first log he grabs into the fire. Though the wood has sat in the snow, it’s old and dry and catches quickly. Samandriel feeds several of the smaller pieces Castiel brought in into the fire as well. Soon, the fire isn’t just pale orange and yellow but green. The flames surround their bucket of water.

“Is he completely undressed?” Castiel asks, looking at the Frenchman.

Samandriel blushes. Thankfully, the fire disguises it and claims it as its own. “Yes.”

“Good.”

The next thing Samandriel knows, Castiel is stepping out of his boots and shrugging off his coat at the same time. Samandriel stands up and gives his partner a confused look.

“What are you doing, Castiel?” he asks.

“It’s important to warm him up,” says Castiel. “One of the quickest ways to do that is to share body heat.” Coats discarded, Castiel now moves onto his pants. “You know this.”

Samandriel does, admittedly. Every good Russian mother passes on this knowledge to her children, and Samandriel’s mother was always very astute.

“You should get naked as well, Samandriel,” Castiel says, moving onto his pants now. His nipples stand erect on his chest due to the cold. “With both of us sharing our body heat with him, he’ll recover sooner and with less side effects.”

After only a moment’s hesitation, Samandriel takes his clothes off as well. He notices that Castiel has even taken off his drawers, but he can’t bring himself to follow suit with the unfaithful thoughts still sitting in his mind, just waiting to overcome him.

Castiel pulls them man up into a sitting position and fits himself to his right side. Beneath the blanket, Samandriel can see his hands rubbing up and down where the man’s thighs are.

“Are you okay, Samandriel?” Castiel asks when Samandriel doesn’t get in on the Frenchman’s other side.

Samandriel swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Then come join me and help, please.”

Taking a cold, deep breath, Samandriel pulls up the corner of the blankets and presses himself against the Frenchman's freezing body. His right arm join’s Castiel’s left at the man’s back. There’s barely enough room for all three of them on the small sofa; Samandriel doubts there would be if they weren’t sitting so closely, their skin practically glued together all along their sides.

“Start rubbing him to get his blood moving again,” Castiel instructs. Samandriel tentatively runs his left hand on the man’s other thigh in time with Castiel; his right attempts to stroke up and down his skinny side, but there isn’t much room to move it. The man’s leg feels queer under Samandriel’s palm, curved outward instead of nearly straight like a normal man’s.

Occasionally, Samandriel’s and Castiel’s fingers meet between the man’s thighs where they connect with the rest of his body, an intimate place Samandriel knows, on himself, he loves Castiel to lick and kiss and suck. It feels perverse to be touching this unconscious man in such a matter, but it’s necessary. Necessary.

“His-” Samandriel breaks off as his touch lingers a bit too long inside the man’s upper thigh. His rhythm with Castiel is off by mere seconds, so he speeds up until they meet again at the knee. “His member has frostbite.”

Castiel nods, and when their hands travel back upwards, his goes even further while Samandriel’s turns back down. Castiel’s eyes flutter for a moment before he controls himself. “Yes, I can feel it.”

Jealousy shouldn’t be brewing in Samandriel’s stomach the way it does now. He bites his lip and keeps the blasphemous feeling contained since it refuses to be erased.

“Samandriel, you should help me,” Castiel says. His voice has lowered. “This man needs his penis; it would be devastating if it had to be amputated because we couldn’t warm it up properly.”

It would be a shame, Samandriel thinks. He feels guilty when his hand joins Castiel’s around the member, his fingers curling over the back of Castiel’s hand. _This is all necessary_.

It’s Castiel who begins to stroke their fingers up and down the Frenchman’s shaft. Samandriel doesn’t have the heart to stop him or pull away.

“Get his lips, Samandriel,” Castiel instructs, and Samandriel is powerless to refuse even though he knows the potential and severe consequences of what would happen should the Frenchman wake up. Two men being together as one man and one woman naturally do is a sin, a guaranteed way to earn the Devil’s attention. But such a heavenly sin it is.

The man’s lips are unresponsive when Samandriel slides his between them. For all the response Samandriel gets, he’s kissing a dead man, but the heavy, labored breaths that are exhaled into his mouth say otherwise. Slowly but surely, the man’s lips warm with Samandriel’s tending, and Samandriel has to break away for a moment to regain breath and to mentally put down the erection standing in his drawers.

With Samandriel having broken away, Castiel doesn’t waste time to take his place. This time, there is no jealousy in Samandriel, only arousal that builds and builds on itself, not helping his erection at all; in fact, he only stiffens more. The sight of his partner trying to bring this man back to wakefulness, parting the Frenchman’s lips even further with his tongue - it’s almost too much for Samandriel. Behind his eyelids, the Frenchman’s eyes move wildly about, and Samandriel wonders if he is dreaming and who he’s dreaming of or if he is about to awaken. Castiel slips his hand from beneath Samandriel’s to cup the Frenchman’s cheek.

Judging by the shivers that begin to rack the man’s body and spread to shake Samandriel and Castiel, Samandriel is going to guess it’s the latter. The shivers mean he’s coming back to health. Samandriel allows himself to be cautiously optimistic about his outlook.

“Cas, he’s waking up,” Samandriel whispers. The cloud of his breath blows against his partner’s and the Frenchman’s cheek.

Castiel only parts from the Frenchman, eyes still closed, to reply, “I know.” Then, he goes back to warming up the man’s lips. A moan puffs between them, but even Samandriel can’t tell if it belongs to Castiel or the Frenchman.

At last, the Frenchman’s eyes do more than twitch, and Samandriel’s heart beats painfully in his chest; the Frenchman’s eyes blink open to reveal shockingly green eyes that only seem momentarily surprised before his eyes flutter shut again, but this time the man is surely awake, though clearly in much pain with the way he gingerly holds himself. He brings life back to the kiss, claiming Castiel’s lips as if they belong to him or as if they’re more familiar than this night.

Samandriel feels a weight lift off of his chest, but he doesn’t know how long it’ll stay away. The Frenchman is probably hallucinating or too out of it to realize the mouth he’s kissing belongs to a man. Samandriel knows from experience that not many are open to the idea of homosexuality; neither he nor Castiel have even met others like them, but they’ve heard stories of them, mostly of them being found out and murdered. The chances of this French soldier being the same as Samandriel and Castiel are so slim that Samandriel barely allows himself to hope.

The next moan that sounds out without a doubt belongs to the Frenchman, and this time it’s a sound of pain and not pleasure. The man arches up in suffering. Castiel leans back, hand dropping, and searches the man’s face. " _P_ _as le pénis. S'il vous plaît arrêter de me toucher! Oh!_ "

Samandriel and Castiel exchange a glance. They have no idea what the Frenchman is saying, though it’s laced with agony. Samandriel didn’t think this far ahead, that there would be communication issues. This man likely only knows French, and neither Samandriel nor Castiel have heard a language other than their own. Samandriel feels particularly helpless, unable to tell what currently is causing the Frenchman the most pain.

“We don’t understand what you’re saying,” Castiel says, though the Frenchman doesn’t understand them any better than they do him.

The Frenchman grunts and tries to move his arms, but he’s shivering too much. Samandriel feels freezing fingers trail along his arm until they reach his hand. Then, the Frenchman starts tugging, and Samandriel gets the message and lets go.

“Oh. He doesn’t want us to touch him. Or at least his penis.”

Understanding dawns in Castiel’s eyes. “That would make sense. It must be very sensitive.”

“The water should be warm enough now,” Samandriel says. Truth be told, the water is probably a bit too warm at this point since Samandriel was distracted from it. Castiel nods and slips out from under the blanket. A vicious wave of shivers tremor the Frenchman’s body with Castiel’s absence, and he whines. His eyes track Castiel longingly. Samandriel tries to comfort the man and calm his shivers by wrapping his arms around him and willing his own body heat to transfer. “Be quick.”

Castiel is careful so very little water can slosh out the sides of the bucket as he brings it to Samandriel and the Frenchman. He places the bucket down so he can get back beneath the covers, then places the bucket between the Frenchman’s legs. Samandriel finds the Frenchman’s hand under the blanket and withdraws it, the man wincing. The degree of frostbite on his fingers is appalling and sickening. Samandriel gently lowers the hand into the warm bucket. The Frenchman tenses for a moment, but relaxes soon enough as the hot water begins to melt the ice and warm up his hand. A small groan parts his lips. Samandriel thinks there’s a low word buried in that sound, not that he or Castiel would be able to grasp what that word is.

The Frenchman’s other hand is dipped into the water bucket next.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks the Frenchman, who mostly seems confused.

“He doesn’t understand Russian,” Samandriel says obviously.

“It’s worth a try.” Castiel’s lips - still plump and slick from his kiss with the Frenchman - form a thoughtful line. He points first to his chest, then across the Frenchman’s torso to Samandriel. “Castiel. Samandriel.”

The Frenchman’s eyebrows shoot up from their pained furrow and his mouth falls open slightly. His lips aren’t quite as colorful as they were when he was found. He repeats the names in an awkward French accent, nearly mutilating them beyond recognition, but it sounds like strange music to Samandriel’s ears. “Castiel. Samandriel.”

Both Russians nod at their respective name. Smiling, Samandriel jabs his finger back at Castiel and gives the Frenchman his simpler nickname, “Cas.” It might be easy on his accented tongue.

The Frenchman nods once in acknowledgement and again, lower, indicating himself since his hands are still thawing in the water. “Dean.”

“Dean,” Samandriel and Castiel say in synchronization. The single syllable is easy in their Russian tongue. “That is a good name,” Castiel says. “Strong.”

Samandriel makes an agreeing noise.

Dean is looking from Castiel to Samandriel somewhat suspiciously now, no doubt wondering at the exchange they’re having. Samandriel bites his lips and wishes speaking between languages wasn’t so hard a task.

He gestures between himself and Castiel, points outside, and mimics carrying Dean inside and placing him by the fire as best he can while seated beneath the heavy blanket. Some of Dean’s confusion melts away and understanding at his environment lightens his spring green eyes, though he’s still cautious.

“ _Salauds vous allez me tuer quand nous aurons terminé notre séance de câlins? Parce que je préfère en finir avec ça maintenant._ ”

Samandriel and Castiel look to each other, again, having no idea what Dean is saying. Dean sighs and his hand surfaces from the water. It hovers there in the shape of a gun - Dean might mime shooting it, but it’s hard to tell with his shivering - then splashes back down.

“Is he asking where his gun is?” Samandriel whispers across Dean to Castiel. “I didn’t see one where he was, did you?”

“He could be asking whether we will kill him or not,” Castiel suggests. “Either way, the answer will be the same.”

Samandriel looks at Dean and shakes his head. There’s a relieved slump to Dean’s shoulders that suggests Castiel was more accurate with his guess of Dean’s intention.

“ _Qu'en est-il…_ ” Dean catches himself. Instead of using words, Dean puckers his lips to form a kiss like one would give a child or a pet, and he is understood perfectly.

This is a little more difficult to interpret. Samandriel feels nerves churn his stomach uneasily and lets Castiel explain this part.

Castiel points at Samandriel, and when Dean’s expression turns into one of surprise again, Castiel pulls his eyelids down to mimic the look of sleep. Then Castiel points to himself and deliberately reopens his eyes. More understanding clears Dean’s confusion, but it also gives way to disappointment. It’s not the anger it could have been, and while Samandriel is relieved at that, he is also confused.

“He doesn’t seem to be angry that we’re men,” Samandriel whispers. “What could-”

Dean interrupts Samandriel’s question by turning back his way and kissing the words out of his mouth. Shock keeps Samandriel almost as still as Dean was for their first kiss, but he realizes - with much more surprise - that maybe Dean’s disappointed expression was because he was unconscious for their kiss. Samandriel knows he would be disappointed if he learned this handsome Frenchman kissed him and he had no memory of it. Samandriel opens his mouth gladly. Thanks in large part to Castiel, Dean’s lips are warmer still. The viciousness of his enthusiasm blows Samandriel away even when they part.

Dean’s smile is gorgeous and his eyes glitter. When he speaks, Samandriel doesn’t mind that he can’t understand a word. He’d love to just listen to Dean speak, love to listen to the exotic, lyrical flow of words that is so different from Russian, which Samandriel has always considered plain, blocky, and obtuse. Castiel is under the same spell of Dean’s tongue, eyes glazing as he loses focus on the cold world around them.

“ _De toutes les personnes en Russie, ce sont deux pédés qui m'ont secouru_.” Dean chuckles. He looks at Samandriel with lowered eyelids and dazzled eyes. “ _Je ne peux pas croire que je n'étais pas conscient pour celui-là. Vous embrassez très bien. Vous m'avez rendu à la vie, c'est sûr. Je pensais que j'étais un homme mort. Merci._ ”

Even through the barrier of their languages, Dean’s voices comes over warm and grateful. Samandriel smiles.

“ _Vous êtes mignon_ ,” Dean says.

“ _Et vous_ ,” Dean continues, rolling his head to face Castiel. “ _Vous aussi. Wow, je dois être le plus chanceux mec au monde. Qui aurait pensé que l'hypothermie pouvait être une chance?”_

“I don’t think he’s entirely lucid,” Samandriel says to Castiel, forcing his eyes away from the small hairs on the back of Dean’s neck.

Castiel shrugs. “It’s not as if we’d be able to tell otherwise.”

Samandriel supposes his partner is right.

A large, gnarling noise is let out from Dean’s stomach, reminding Samandriel of the prominent ribs of a starving man he saw while undressing Dean. He apologizes even though Dean can’t understand him.

“He hasn’t eaten properly in weeks,” Samandriel says as he regretfully leaves the warm nest of blankets. Dean’s eyes burn into him. “I’m going to reheat the stew and brew tea.”

“That’s a good idea.” Castiel nods. He grabs Dean’s attention and places a hand on his stomach, then points back to Samandriel, who dons his jacket and pants again to keep warm as he moves around the cabin.

The tea is ready before the stew. Samandriel pours three mugs of it. In Dean’s hands, the water sloshes down the sides as he tries to drink through the shivers. Thankfully, with each sip, Dean’s body temperature increases, and his shivers ease. It helps significantly that his hands are wrapped tightly around the mug, which radiates heat even after Dean swallows the last drop. Castiel hands him his own mug, and Dean drinks that one down quickly, too.

Samandriel knows that they shouldn’t give Dean too much food in case his small stomach cannot handle it. He fills Dean’s bowl of stew halfway and gives him only one slice of bread. The stew isn’t a particularly special fare, but Dean devours it as if it was stolen from the Tsar’s table. Dribbles of broth run down his chin and stain the blanket.

“ _C'est_ -” Dean shoves the bread into his mouth, staunching his words and turning them into garble. “ _Littéralement la meilleure nourriture que j'ai eu depuis des éons... Mmm_!” His tone is gratuitous, so the Russians believe they understand his words.

“You’re welcome,” Samandriel says. He continues with his own stew, less voraciously as Dean.

When his bowl is emptied and Samandriel declines to fill it again, Dean deflates against Castiel’s shoulder. Samandriel can tell he’s unhappy at not being given more to fill his stomach, but he’s also grateful to be warm and safe.

Castiel rubs his hand up and down Dean’s shoulder. “Perhaps when some time has passed and you don’t throw up. Your stomach isn’t used to expanding anymore.”

Dean’s next exhale is a yawn. His eyelids droop. “ _Est-il acceptable si une faire une petite sieste_?”

Samandriel watches as Dean’s breathing evens and slows. His skin isn’t as blue as before, and there’s virtually no shiver in him now. Castiel holds his lips to the man’s temple. A swell of uncontainable happiness surges within Samandriel at the sight of them.

“What now?” Castiel asks.

Samandriel doesn't have an answer for his partner of several years. In lieu of one, he takes off all his clothes again - even his boxers - lifts the side of the blanket, and repositions himself beside Dean. He brings Castiel in for a kiss, soft and loving.

"We'll figure it out," he replies simply, and they kiss again.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Pas le pénis. S'il vous plaît arrêter de me toucher! Oh!_ \- Not the penis. Please stop touching me! Oh!
> 
>  _Salauds vous allez me tuer quand nous aurons terminé notre séance de câlins? Parce que je préfère en finir avec ça maintenant._ \- You bastards gonna kill me when we’re done our cuddle session? ‘Cause I’d rather get it over with now
> 
>  _Qu'en est-il…_ \- What about...
> 
>  _De toutes les personnes en Russie, ce sont deux pédés qui m'ont secouru_ \- What are the odds, huh? Of all the people in Russia, two faggots rescue me.
> 
>  _Je ne peux pas croire que je n'étais pas conscient pour celui-là. Vous embrassez très bien. Vous m'avez rendu à la vie, c'est sûr. Je pensais que j'étais un homme mort. Merci._ \- Can’t believe I was out for that one. You’re a very good kisser. Put the life right back into me, that’s for sure. Thought I was a dead man. Thanks.
> 
>  _Vous êtes mignon_ \- You're adorable.
> 
>  _Et vous_ \- And you.
> 
>  _Vous aussi. Wow, je dois être le plus chanceux mec au monde. Qui aurait pensé que l'hypothermie pouvait être une chance ?_ \- You, too. Wow, I must be the luckiest dude in the world. Who would’ve thought hypothermia was a lucky thing?
> 
>  _C'est... littéralement la meilleure nourriture que j'ai eu depuis des éons. Mmm!_ \- This is... literally the best food I’ve had in eons. Mmm!
> 
>  _Est-il acceptable si une faire une petite sieste?_ \- Is it okay if I take a quick nap?


End file.
